


Freudian.

by Strangecat_Ramsey



Series: Freudian [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangecat_Ramsey/pseuds/Strangecat_Ramsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>:For Sherlock Kink MEME Prompt:<br/>The Holmes brother had a very warm childhood. Lestrade and John had absent and extremely strict parents. Its funny how these things shape a person.</p>
<p>A couple of ficlets about John and Sherlock's Childhood's, and how that affects their relationship.</p>
<p>(to be followed by a Mystrade version)</p>
<p>Unbeta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Watson's Childhood.

John Watson was the average military brat. His family moving from pillar to post as his father was moved to various bases during his periods of service. Spending most of his days out in the country side when he wasn’t attending some new school or other, while trying to help his family deal with their father’s absences during duty. John still young dealt with it well, enjoying it as an adventure even though he sorely missed his father. 

John had developed a habit of walking along the beaches after school, imagining being out at war alongside his father ,helping and healing people just like his father did, proving that he was worthy of the name Watson, wanting the grand adventures and world travels. 

Some evenings however seemed to arrive faster than others.

“Where the hell have you been boy?”

“I ah… I was out with Harry, Mother.” John Watson now aged 9 (and a half) stated cursing himself for stuttering, stopping dead in his tracks to stand to attention staring his mother straight in the eye as he had been taught to do.

“That slut of a sister of yours went off with her dike friends an hour ago boy! Don’t you even try to lie to me John Watson! You’re as bad as your good for nothing father!” John took a step back already smelling the pungent smell of cooking sherry laden on her breath.

“Father’s not good for nothing! He’s doing the country a service! I want to be just like him!” He should have known better than to talk back to his mother. He really should have, especially when she was obviously drunk again, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not when his father’s honor was being called into Question.

“Your Father doesn’t care about his family! He loves his country more than us! Off on some mission with his chums leaving me alone to watch over you lot of filth! I had options! I could have married far better than that bastard”

“Father loves us! He’s helping people Mother! Why can’t you see that!” John wasn’t able to think straight as he fought for his father who was away helping people as was his duty, his privilege to do so. How he missed his father.

“You’re father is a useless bastard! AND HE DOESN’T LOVE US! Are you really that stupid John!? Just as deluded as your father! Head filled with nonsense again! Stupid Boy! Do you actually believe he cares about you? He left us again! He left you!” His mother hissed cruelly moving closer, looming over him, poised to strike if his next move was wrong.

“YOU’RE WRONG” John shouted, earning him a slap through the face causing him to stumble backward. His mother stumbling closer to him, before slumping down to the floor as if realizing what she had done, starting to sob, giving John the moment to gap through her running up to his room, chanting that she was wrong. She was very wrong.

Later that night Harry arrived home well after midnight, crawling in through her brother’s window so as not to alert her mother to her arrival only to find her little brother curled up under his bed with the army issue torch his father had presented him with before leaving on his latest mission. 

Normally she would have just continued walking, but the small sniveling noises that had come out from under the bed stopped her in her tracks, dropping down to the floor to crawl beneath it with him, noticing the red mark on his face, frowning before pulling him closer.

“Mum said Dad doesn’t love us anymore.” John whispered hugging the torch to his chest letting it highlight his eerily gaunt 9 year old face.

“Course he does Johnny. He’s doing his job like every Dad does. At least he comes home when he’s done. Some dads never do. Anyway mum was drunk wasn’t she? She just misses dad.” Harry whispered trying to console her little brother who sniffed, wiping his nose, refusing to acknowledge that he had been crying.

“I miss Dad too.” John whispered starting to fall asleep Harry giving him a tight squeeze in acknowledgement silently letting him know that she missed him too. At least he understood her.


	2. Sherlocks Childhood.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Sherlock's having a good day.

“Sherlock you haven’t happened to see Mycroft around have you?” Mother asked as she climbed through the attic door, having to stoop low before sitting down beside her youngest son, looking over his shoulder to see what he was doing.

“Noooo Mummy.” Came the entirely too innocent and disinterested voice, small fingers carefully adding yet another insect to his now impressive collection.

“Now what is that bug honey?” She asked knowing the best way to get around to an answer would be to distract her boy before tricking him into it.

“Its not a bug mummy! Bugs are of the order Hemip…tera. This is of the order Neu…rop…tera. Specifically Laur…hervasia setacea, commonly known as the Thread-wing Lacewing. A rare find.” Stated young Sherlock clearly proud of himself, patting down a fragile wing as he mounted it and began to label it, tongue stuck between his teeth as he carefully wrote down each letter.

“A rare find you say? And why is that baby boy?” she asked patting down his hair with an equal amount of gentleness not wanting to distract him from his work.

“I found it in the box that Grandfather Holmes sent all the way from Africa. I half suspect he put it in there for me to find. Further investigation will bear fruit.”

“I see. That was very nice of him. You shall have to send him a letter? Perhaps Mycroft could help you with your investigation?” Mother prompted hinting at wanting to know the location of Mycroft.

“Mycroft is safe mummy. Besides I shall never give away the location not under pain of torture or death!” Sherlock warned giggling at the grin on his mothers face as she sensed a game, and how she loved games, she pouted at Sherlock, who refused to talk putting his book down gently about to tell her that he wouldn’t talk again but was stopped when his mother started pulling Sherlock into her lap for a tickle, enjoying the way that he squealed in delight, arms pinned to his side to try and avoid her getting to his worst spots. 

“ WON’T TALK! CANT MAKE ME” Sherlock giggled squirming trying to get away as his mother caught his sides another squeal shaking the very room.

“What’s all the noise then?” Father asked sticking his head in through the door, book under arm, glasses slipping down his nose again, though he took no notice of it.

“Sherlock is under investigation for the kidnapping of one older brother. Last seen in his room reading a book. He refuses to talk. We shall make him talk. We have ways and means!” Mother said in her most sinister voice, cackling as she started to tickle around his neck.

“Oh is that so? I believe I can help you with that” father said putting on his own sinister voice, climbing into the attic, all limb’s looking rather ridiculous in that small space, Mother holding onto Sherlock for dear life as Father removed his shoes.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he comprehended what was about to happen and started to kick and squeal as his father grabbed his foot and started to tickle under the arch of his foot. 

“Tell us Mr.Holmes where is your brother! Or this will go very badly for you!” Sherlock was breathless and limp against his mother by the time he finally confessed.

“In…the…trunk!” Sherlock giggled completely out of breath pointing his head in the corner of the room, where an extremely large old trunk sat soundless in the entire room.

Father and mother exchanged somewhat panicked looks as father crawled over to the trunk finding a combination lock on the lid and stared at Sherlock eyebrow raised. “Sherlock putting your brother in a trunk is dangerous, He might run out of air, whats the code?”

Sherlock smirked for a moment before realizing that it might have been a bad idea to put Mycroft in the trunk sighed softly “ Morning,Noon,Evening and Mid Night. 6,12,18,0 . Sorry daddy. Mycroft would have stopped me if it was that dangerous!” 

Father opened the trunk as instructed lifting the lid in the hopes that nothing was wrong, surprised that there had been no knocking from within the trunk. Only to be surprised by the sight of his oldest son, lying on his side curled up slightly, with a pen light in his hand reading his book, looking up equally surprised to find his father staring down at him instead of Sherlock.

“Good Afternoon Father. How was work?” He said as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Before getting out of the trunk with the languidness of a cat, somehow managing to miss hitting his head before walking over to his brother grinning. His father speechless.

“Told you so. Little brother.” Mycroft declared looking rather smug.

Mother had managed to gain her voice back cleared her throat watching her husband start to sneak up on Mycroft. Sherlock trying not to stare too obviously in excitement as his father snuck like an old villain on Mycroft “and what was this little wager about if a mother may enquire?” 

Mycroft was about to answer when he was tackled down onto the floor, dropping his book, his father’s fingers finding his tickle spot with the accuracy of a ballistic heat synchronized missile. Sherlock jumped to his fathers aid, mercilessly tickling his brother as mother found Sherlock’s camera beside his insect collection and started taking snap shots. 

“NOT FAIR! I WILL GET YOU FOR THIS! I AM MYCROFT HO…”


	3. Johnlock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is being his normal unfeeling self. Johns having a bad day. Sherlock tries to help.

“Did you get Milk John?” Sherlock asked from his spot on the couch, John swearing that he hadn’t moved from that spot in the last 6 hours.

“No sorry didn’t have a chance. I was busy at work. Why didn’t you get any?! Or were you too busy being miserable to move your arse?” John asked in annoyance not in the mood for a bored Sherlock once again, moving off toward his computer noticing that it had in fact been used since he had left, and placed rather willy nilly on the floor.

“Why lie John.” Sherlock answered

“Did you use my laptop?” John asked trying to distract Sherlock staring at it intently. Sherlock who had yet to move from his chair steepled his fingers, a cruel catlike smile starting to play over his lips as his eyes brightened, warning John of a deduction he might not like to hear.

“You lied because you’re embarrassed. Something you feel a need to hide from me; but why? Family perhaps? No. You’ve long since become immune to the embarrassment Harriet has caused your family and you haven’t seen your mother since you left for the military. So what could it possibly be?” Sherlock stared at him his eyebrow raising ready to take a deep breath before telling John exactly what he had just deduced, the tidy look of pride on his face again like a cat who caught something as he knew he had just come to the right answer.

“Tea” John offered hastening toward the kitchen not wanting to hear how pointedly obvious he was.

“Do you have to be so thick John? I told you we didn’t have any milk. Try not to be so idiotically stupid in future will you? It does make me look bad.” With that Sherlock went back to wrapping his bath robe around himself examining the patterns on the wall paper that would have given most people a headache. 

John breathed a sigh of relief believing he had dodged a bullet, getting his coat to go and fetch milk, a god given excuse to escape Sherlock. This must have been a record at how quickly Sherlock had managed to upset him. He was so close. Just out the door really when he heard Sherlock’s voice.

“You were visiting your father’s grave weren’t you? The dirt stain on your knee’s is exactly that of London cemetery. Not embarrassed then, merely secretive, unwilling to share such private information. The real question is. What prompted such a sentimental visit? How long has he been dead now John? He must have died when you were quite young? It is rather obvious that you try to model yourself on him? Is that perhaps why you joined the military? Or was it to get away from your mother?”

John frowned taking a step back as if he’d been slapped, “Right…right.” Taking a deep breath before dropping his coat and keys on the nearest surface before walking off to his room gently closing the door behind him.

John wasn’t entirely sure what had prompted Sherlock to knock on his door but he didn’t care. Stuffing the torch his father had given him beneath his pillow before pretending to go to sleep.

“John?” There was another tentative knock at the door before he heard it creep open, followed by light footsteps and the bed dipping. “My Apologies. That was out of line.”

John grunted in answer allowing Sherlock to wrap an arm around him and pull him close, remaining stiff in his arms but he had to admit that for Sherlock to apology had to cost him. 

“Fine. Let’s drop it K?” John muttered feeling himself unwillingly relax as Sherlock used his surprisingly magical fingers to massage his sore shoulder, already starting to drift off to sleep.

“If your father was anything like you John, he was a good man. And probably a crack shot.” John chuckled wondering what had prompted Sherlock to be so nice all of a sudden but he didn’t really care, he was warm and comfortable, and had suddenly found his father’s torch pressed into his hand.Holding on it for dear life as Sherlock dug his finger into a particularly tender spot making him groan.

“I was 14.When he…Dad. Died. Mum was devastated. Harry left home almost immediately.” John whispered wondering why he was providing Sherlock with more ammo. 

“I was 13 when Father died. Mother did the best that she could after that of course. Mycroft blames himself even to this day. ” Sherlock said kissing the scar on Johns Shoulder pulling him closer. John felt overwhelmed by that information, Sherlock was never this open, taking Sherlock’s hand to squeeze it tightly. Appreciating this more than he was willing to admit to himself.

“John?”

“Yes Sherlock?”

“Go get some milk.”

“Sod off.”

Fin.


End file.
